The Storm of a Slap
by abby-normal 2448
Summary: A series of instances that reveal some of Simza's history concerning her brother as well as her talents. This was written purely out of curiosity, and perhaps it will satisfy a smidgen. No mention of Holmes or Watson...so don't be dissapointed...


**Background is always fun.**

* * *

He slapped her. Hard. She still couldn't...impossible...red seepage where his ring bit...half an inch…

The knife stuck in its place, in the dirtied white ring, in the rip half an inch from the bull's-eye, in the cut in her cheek where his ring bit, where the disappointment lingered, where the expectations heightened.

He stalked to the target and ripped the knife from the painted burlap, let his arm drop to his side, sighed as he closed his eyes to the ceiling. Patches of light filtered through gashes in the ceiling, painted the sharp angles of his face a contrast of steel and blackness, the palette of the moon. Then a whirl, and he was on one knee. Air skimmed her cheek. A thud behind her.

All frustration gone, he walked back to her, placed a hand on her shoulder as he squatted down to her height. "Calm is the key, sister. We are not yet in the storm." He hugged her close then, and she gratefully squeezed back, a silent apology for her failure. He gently pushed her back, wiped away the thin streak of blood from her cheek with his thumb. "No, I am sorry Sim. We will continue when day breaks." And with that he left the dilapidated shed.

So she stood solitary, willing away the pain of the slap, determined now. She _must_ learn to do her part, for the cause, for liberty, for her brother. The knife was pulled from the back wall with some effort; Rene's strength matched his accuracy. Cracked leather rubbed at her tiny, calloused, six-year-old palms. In the dull blade she saw the silhouette of someone half-made: a tangled mess of hair, the dark eyebrows of her father, Parisian nose of her mother, persistent frown of her brother. But where was the girl?

"I am the storm." She murmured this as she would a secret to the wind. Not for anyone but herself, lost in a moment, but so sweet when first realized. Why should there be a calm when her brother could have the storm?

"I am the storm."

The blade pierced the outer edge of the bull's-eye.

"The storm."

A rip slightly above the center.

"I am the storm." Now tears mingled with the mantra, her cut feeling the salt of her anger. Her teeth ground together as a blade would on a whetstone. The little girl edged up to the target and yanked out her knives. Walking back to the other end of the shed she breathed in quick huffs, building up her energy, increasing her intensity, so the target may feel her full wrath.

A passerby in the night may have mistaken the thunks and grunts of exertion for copulation, but it was more the tragedy of a struggling will.

Rene found her slumped up against the target in the morning, one knife in her hand, the other in the center of the target….or what used to be the center. There was a large tear where the bull's-eye would have been. He smiled sadly, confidant she was ready for the next step. Ravache would be pleased.

* * *

Olive smoke at her side, curling, twisting, tugging her away. No use. What was seen was seen. A rough arm hooked around her waist and pulled her out of the doorframe, through a series of corridors, past the "kitchen," into a quiet corner. He looked down at her, forced her face up.

"What you saw is nothing. Do not let it worry you, dove."

"But what was he-"

"Rene's business is his alone….he was…preparing for the next mission…." Of course he was lying, any ten-year-old with half as much sense as her could tell. Rene could not have been cutting his arms open unless it was to become a character, but Ravache had said they weren't ready for such an advanced role in any mission. Something was wrong.

"Tamas!" She hated to act her age, but it was necessary for Tamas. The loss of his daughter was his weakness when it came to Sim…and now was not the time to let her ethics impede her search for knowledge. She pouted, arms folded across her vested abdomen, long brown skirt swaying gently as she spread booted feet apart. The look in his eyes almost tore her apart as he watched her, but not as herself, as his own. She noted a twitch in his right hand, knew the itch to embrace her was there, and she deepened her pout; she loved when her observations paid off-

He slapped her.

"I know your games, Simza Heron. You are too clever, but if you must know then by God I cannot protect you from the truth. Your brother is not the rock you envision him to be, but soft copper, too willing to bend to the will of others. And when the strain becomes too much, he has his way of finding release, to overcome pain with pain." He took a breath, recomposed himself, all too aware of the impact of his blunt explanation. Large, shocked eyes stared up at his, a little mouth hung open in disbelief, and he could not continue his explanation. "Go to Ravache, he has someone he would like you to meet."

Her world was shattered. Yet it was not the slap to her dignity, but the hurt to Rene's that fueled her emotions. Family was number one, and she had to protect their pride, just like he always said. Resolve overtook the not-quite-grown feature.

"I hate you." Now it was his turn to stand dumbstruck. And she scampered down the halls, leaving a sullen Tamas behind.

She did not run to Ravache as instructed, but back to Rene. He had cleaned up after the intrusion, and now it was as if nothing had happened.

"Tamas called you weak!" There was no surprise where she expected to see outrage at the indignity of it all. Only acceptance. "Rene! You need to tell him he's wrong!" She ran to hug him but stopped inches away as he stood motionless. The dirty, oranged, blade hung in his belt, and the image was enough to make her want to vomit.

She fled the room.

A cabinet in the kitchen was her refuge. Clattering pans, wheeling carts, guffaws of working men, all to drown out her thoughts. She hummed to herself to forget. It was a song Rene taught her. It was a long one too, she was proud she remembered the entire thing. It ended. She sang another.

Light blinded her mid-chant. Rene's silhouette appeared.  
"Come out little one. I'm okay now, we're alright."

"No."

"I don't think the mice could handle the storm, sister." A half-smile. "If you don't come, I'll have Ravache make you sing for everyone here...of course he would probably make me dance with you, eh?" She didn't budge.

"Hm. Then I guess I'll have to bribe you. Here-" He rummaged in his pockets. She was afraid for a second that he would give her his blade. Then again she hoped he _would_ give it, so he would never use it again. He pulled out something much smaller, and it shined in the light from behind him.

"What is it?" Curiosity replaced bullheadedness. He flipped it to her. A silver ring inlaid with black stone.

"This ring belongs to you I think. See the pattern? Silver, black, silver. Sim, you are a beauty on the outside, but can be a stormy little devil when you want. Tamas told me what you did, you sly little girl. Keep this, and remember who you are." He winked as she slipped the ring on her thumb, the only finger it fit. "Now get out of there." He reached in and she crawled into his arms.

He lifted her out amid the haze of chemicals and rushing anarchist attendants.

* * *

"No, it is in the eyes!" The wrinkled hand clutched at hers and held fast. Sim sucked on the inside of her cheek, trying to make this advice into something she could work with. Vadoma watched the face screw up in an attempt to try again. The woman's bracelets on her free arm jangled as she identified more faults.

"Chin up. Would you make that face at a customer? He would need a few more drinks to find that attractive, little one." She offered up a crooked smile, the lines in her face falling into their natural positions as her muscles pulled back to reveal mostly toothless gums.

"But Vadoma, it is impossible to read eyes when they are clouded by drink." Sim knew this protest was weak, but it was better than admitting her shortcomings. She extracted herself from the other woman's grasp, picked up the deck of cards, and proceeded to shuffle. The cards were sticky with wine from Vadoma's cup, but they were still a reassuring constant in this session of torture.

"Child, it is the drunken eyes that show the most. There is something in alcohol that makes men eager to bare their souls, and if you would only open your mind, you could make a profit of it…Now, try again." Quick, fourteen-year old hands deftly worked the cards as quicker eyes scanned the older face for clues.

"Sit up. No, slower dealing out the cards-Don't mock my instruction!-Yes, good confidence in the voice….lean down a little bit more-Don't be embarrassed, child, you have been well endowed *cackle*-Yes, I can see that little blush working well with the customers…you should consider adding more eye-paint…oh yes, that glare will definitely please them…Now, tell me what I want to know."

The foreplay was always so easy, but when the actual task came at hand all ability failed her. Sim froze, could not. Vadoma sighed.

"You cannot say for me, but what if I bring in your brother?" Sim's eyes widened in apprehension. That was the future she did not want to know, could not bear to prophecy.

"Please Vadoma, no. I will try harder."

"No, you will not _try_. A woman's nature in these arts is supposed to take hold, and you are to glide." Vadoma's expression took on a nostalgic glimmer as she remembered her own first lessons. Or maybe, Sim smirked to herself, the witch was just passing gas. The elder caught the disrespectful look, her features darkened.

Vadoma slapped her.

"This is not a joke! Ravache has had me teach you for three weeks and what can you do? You can flip cards and molest a glass ball, something even a man could manage. Don't you wish to become a character?! Or would you rather travel with the filth of horses, toting guns, vagabonding your way through the provinces? This is an opportunity, girl, take it or be left to the will of men, who will surely never be as kind to you as Ravache and I."

Sim's cheeks reddened at the scolding, realizing her ingratitude towards this woman who really was exercising patience with the teen. She communicated this, lowering her eyes in understanding as blood flowed beneath her skin. A bruise, yet another trophy for her foolishness, was sure to show in a few minutes.

"I am sorry Madame Vadoma."

"Good. Now, again."

* * *

The physical impact was that of a lover's kiss, but the emotional impact was that of a slap to the face.

Hands, desperate, clinging to hair.

It was not supposed to be him.

No breath.

Eighteen-year-old hands on a chest, pushing away.

Ever insistent, emotions high, no way out.

Not like this.

Pulling away, trying.

Denial, over and over, please no more.

Sim sat back against the remnants of the pier later, knees pulled up, listlessly staring, trying to remove the minutes past from memory. The whimpering ceased two minutes after the incident, the tears five minutes after, the shaking six and a half minutes after; she utilized the self-control taught by Vadoma. Tamas appeared out of the haze of the approaching dawn, walking steadily, not sure if she was…stable. He stood above her, like he used to when she was a child. Patiently waiting.

"I will be gone by the day's end-" This voice of seemingly irreparable anguish was alien to her. Waves crashed on the rocky beach, washing up the debris of a nightmare. Tamas considered her statement, nodded his head slightly, dug his chin in his muffler, tried to decide if he should tell her. "-with or without my brother."

"He's alive, Sim."

Relief not obvious, but there.

"Rene is weak. Ravache knew…that chances would be slim." Damn the man. He _knew._ Sim thought of the terrible explosion on the ship, the bodies flying, finding Rene under the planks….

"Sometimes sacrifice is necessary for liberty." Tamas tried to grasp at the flitting words as they left his mouth.

"This was not liberty, sending innocent men to kill innocent victims who had no power to prevent their misfortune. Tell me where Rene is. We are going home." Standing now, pushing past the almost-loss, the almost-heartbreak.

"He is in the boathouse with the other survivors. You saved him. Where did you learn to breathe for others?"

She didn't have to answer. Skirts swept up and reached towards the sea as she stood, ragged ends waving wild as her hair. A whip of wind past her cheek and a memory. When did the roles switch? When did the storm ever benefit the calm? Why…

"I am the storm." A murmur, lowered lashes trying to keep in the tears, light footsteps over uneven rock. Push through, Sim. Just like he always said. The boathouse approached and she could make out figures in the doorway.

A picture of the wet hair thrown across a clammy forehead, eyes rolling back, water out the nose, out the mouth. When did the calm...

She found him in the corner. A huddled mass of rags and damp. She knelt before him, tucked the long hair behind his ears, tried ignoring the scars on the arms he clutched to keep warm. Damn, she looked at them. How could hands that made beautiful masterpieces out of lumps of coal and parchment do such harm…? How could a mind capable of imagining such masterpieces allow him to go off on a suicide mission…? God, she couldn't let him see her cry. Shaky breath. Let it out.

It was her turn now.

"Keep calm brother, that is the key."

* * *

She cried out. The head of a stranger in her shaking hands, lolling about, lifeless. No more lessons and no more calm. Saliva erupted from unfamiliar lips, spilling all the waste and disappointment onto her stupid, stupid dress. She shouted for help in English, French, Romani...why could no one help!? He was so weak. She was so weak. Faltering will as the crowd pressed closer. She slapped at his cheeks and hoped he would respond. Already a tinge of yellow in the dead eyes staring into hers.

And then she caught it. On his pinkie finger was a ring. One she'd lost after the last mission. The mission where he'd nearly died. A ball of grief rose in her throat.

Silver, black, silver.

He was over. All was over. No more.

She stood on wobbly legs and hobbled out of the building into the clear night. Breathe in. Breathe out. Step after step. Rebuild ever so painfully.

"I am the storm."

* * *

**Reviews are appreciated, and I hope you enjoyed it :)**


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